


Christmas Charades

by confusedrambler



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, First Christmas, Gen, i hecked up foggy's mom's name oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedrambler/pseuds/confusedrambler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nelsons decide to play charades. They forget to warn the blind guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Charades

**Author's Note:**

> I can't deal with these nerd babies. Someone take them away. Also, not my best work but eh. What is?

The first time Foggy brings Matt to Christmas, things start off well enough. It is Christmas Eve and the house is full of people and laughter and roasting meats—they are butchers, after all. Everyone is in good spirits and Matt already feels like part of the family. It’s a little overwhelming, if he’s honest, but sometimes that is a good thing.

They are loud and enthusiastic and they don’t treat him like he’ll break, even if sometimes they forget that he’s blind. That’s okay. They haven’t know him very long, and Foggy is always there to help when they forget. Everything is perfect until the night starts to wind down and they’ve run out of eggnog. Foggy volunteers to get more and Matt bows out of the festivities for a while—it is too loud and too difficult to interact without his best friend to act as buffer.

He retreats to the back porch and leans against the railing, content to breathe in the sharp, clean scent of fresh snow and the lingering aromas of spiced nuts and peppermint and pine needles and everything else that is Christmas. His head his pleasantly buzzing and he can mostly ignore the lively conversations now that there are a few closed doors between the Nelsons and himself, but he still catches a word here and there. Next time, if there is a next time, he will remember to bring earplugs, too.

It is almost peaceful for a while.

Then the Nelsons start screaming about a fire.

Matt’s heart jumps into his throat because, _G-d_ , how did he miss a fire starting? He rips open the door and races through the house, tripping over things in the floor and running into walls as he stretches his senses to their limit, frantically trying to smell smoke or feel heat or taste ash, but there is _nothing_ and the Nelsons are screaming for firemen and help.

He crashes into what he thinks is the living room, chest heaving and head spinning because _what the h-ll._ He can’t find the fire anywhere and the Nelsons are just staring at him in stunned silence and one of them—he’s too worked up to figure out who—has frozen in the middle of wild gesturing.

“What’s going on? What’s happening? Where’s the fire?” The words just kind of spill out of his mouth as he stammers and splutters and they’re nearly unintelligible, he knows that, _he knows that--_ it’s why he tries so hard to be precise in everything he does, but d-mn it, a fire is serious and he doesn’t have _time_ to force his mouth to cooperate. His heart is pounding and it’s getting hard to breathe and he wonders for a moment if his body has betrayed him because he _still_ can’t find the slightest hint that there is a fire at all and his every sense is telling him that the Nelsons are still sitting, and _G-d_ if they know there’s a fire, shouldn’t they be _doing something_? He grabs at the door frame as he starts to tip, so wrapped up in finding the fire ( _where is it, they need his help, he can’t let anything happen to Foggy’s family, G-d_ where is it? _)_ that he has forgotten his balance.

Foggy’s nearest cousin yelps and darts to grab his elbow and the room erupts into chaos. It is too much and he reels, gasping as he struggles to keep from drowning in the _noise_. He feels an arm encircle his waist and his body starts to move without his permission, stumbling forward until he topples into something soft—the couch, his brain eventually supplies. Several minutes pass before the din quiets and he dimly registers a single calming voice, fighting to penetrate hazy, panic-ridden thought.

Foggy’s mother—Catherine, her name is Catherine—combs her fingers through his hair and holds his hand against her chest as she croons.

“It’s all right, dear. Everything is fine; there’s no fire. We’re all perfectly safe, Matthew. Just relax and try to breathe for me.”

His heart thrums in his throat and his hands are still trembling as he works his mouth, struggling to squeeze out more than chest-deep sounds or aborted words and failing. She shushes him gently and holds tighter to his hand.

“Hush, sweetheart. You’re safe here; everything is fine. There is no fire. Take a deep breath and focus on me, Matthew.”

His chest is wrapped in crushing iron and his throat burns and he is sure that a breath will only fan the dull ache into an inferno, but this is Foggy’s mother and he knows she is only trying to help. He forces himself to sip at the air, taking deeper and deeper draughts as his heart slows and the pressure eases and Catherine keeps up a stream of small comforts.

When he gets back to something approaching normal, he is wrung out and numb, feeling almost doughy under Catherine’s ministrations. Another minute passes and she falls silent, bringing his hand to her lips and kissing his knuckles gently.

“I’m so sorry that happened, sweetheart. We didn’t think-- we were playing charades, and we didn’t think to warn you. I am so very sorry, Matthew. It was completely unnecessary and I promise you it won’t happen again.”

His head lolls against the couch cushions and he has to work to find the energy to speak.

“No fire?”

“No, dear one. There was no fire. Only a room full of idiots.” Her words twist at the end, heavy with chagrin.

Matt huffs a laugh, sinking further into the couch as the last bit of tension ebbs from his muscles.

“’S okay. Just a mistake.”

Catherine is silent for a moment before she squeezes his hand again and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“It is _not_ okay. But it won’t happen again; not in my house.”

Matt hums in answer, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. He is only faintly aware when Catherine leaves him, but the appearance of a downy blanket, still warm from the dryer, and a saucer piled with butter cookies that melt on his tongue are welcome additions to his haze.

He is not sure when he falls asleep, he only knows that he does.

* * *

 

When Foggy announces his victorious return—yes, _victorious_. He had to fight off seven other people for that eggnog _thank you very much_ —he is greeted by several loud shushes and baleful glares instead of the jubilant shouting he’d expected. His mom waves him over and his dad looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“What’s going on?”

Another chorus of shushing has Foggy rolling his eyes and stage whispering.

“What, did somebody die?”

His mom frowns, a faint blush staining her cheeks.

“Franklin, _please_ behave. We’ve only just calmed Matthew down.”

“Matt? What happened, is he okay?”

She pulls at her Christmas sweater and her blush deepens.

“Yes, he’s fine. We had a… mishap, earlier. We were playing charades and forgot to warn him. The poor boy thought the house was on fire and worked himself into a panic.”

“Oh, is that all?” Foggy snorts and finds his way into the kitchen to put away the eggnog, ignoring his mother’s indignant spluttering. “Don’t let his tough guy act fool you, this happens literally all the time. He has these crazy good senses and sometimes he just… forgets that it’s not always what it sounds like.”

“Franklin Nelson, I didn’t raise you to be an –ss!”

Foggy sighs and steps back into the dining room, where most of the adult members of the clan sit quietly, eyes darting from Foggy to his mother, as if they’re watching a tennis match. She is, unquestionably, the matriarch and no one has dared to argue with her since Grandma Nelson died two years ago. Well, no one but Foggy.

“Ma, _relax_. Yeah, what you guys did was sh-tty and you definitely shouldn’t do it again, but I’m sure Matt knows it was just an accident. Last week, I scared the h-ll out of him by watching this scary movie, right? He wasn’t even in the room, but he heard the screaming from down the hall and panicked. It took me forever to convince him that nothing was actually wrong so—yeah. It happens and it sucks, but he can deal. He’ll probably even try to apologize or something. Guy’s an idiot.”

She purses her lips, hands on hips as the lights on her Christmas sweater blink in time with her breathing.

“Well, it won’t happen again here, not if I have anything to say about it. That boy is going to feel safe and welcome here, understand?” She glares around the room, eyeing each member of the clan until they mumble in agreement. “Good. Now, if we’re going to make this place a home for Matthew, we’ll have to make a few changes around here. No more playing charades or Pictionary! We’ll just have to think up new games that _everyone_ can play.” Cousin Mack raises their hand half-heartedly. “Yes, what is it?”

“We could play Blind Man’s Bluff?”

Foggy almost chokes on his own spit as the entire clan erupts, trying to decide if Mack’s suggestion is genius, offensive, or just plain stupid. Foggy manages to slip away during all the confusion, snickering under his breath.

He isn’t worried about Matt, not really. It’s just that sometimes Matt runs off to meditate or something after he has an attack and then Foggy finds him later, napping in what have to be the most uncomfortable positions _ever_. So yeah, he’s not creeping around his parent’s house because he’s _worried_. It’s more that he’s kinda expecting to find Matt crumpled in one of the corners of the guest bedroom snoring like a chainsaw, and he’d like to avoid getting chewed out by his mother again, thanks.

When he finds Matt drooling on the sofa, cocooned in his little sister’s pink monstrosity of a blanket with a plate of half-eaten cookies on his chest, he’s surprised, to say the least. But he also knows a gift from G-d when he sees one.

_Oh yeah_ , he thinks as he pulls out his phone. This is _definitely_ going on the wall.


End file.
